A Brand New Decade
by S. Faith
Summary: The big 4-0 is approaching, and Bridget's dreading it. Rated for language for a few f-bombs. Beyond the movie universe.
1. one of three

**A Brand New Decade**  
Part 1 of 3

By S. Faith, © 2009

Words: 10,859 (total; in three almost-equal parts)  
Rating: M / R (mostly due to the f-bomb)  
Summary: The big 4-0 is approaching, and Bridget's dreading it.  
Disclaimer: Really not mine.  
Notes: The big 4-0 is next year for me, so… it got me to thinking. Also, you may have noticed I've chosen some British spellings for words, so don't mentally ding me for misspells. I have the language set to English UK for spellchecking.

**ETA**: "amnyous", thank you for the review, but I felt that your describing what you wanted to happen was too close to... well, just keep reading. :D

* * *

_One month until doomsday._

Someone, probably Shaz, had very helpfully drawn a giant skull and crossbones on the calendar for October the ninth, with the ominous warning in heavy black marker. She thought she might just have to kill Shaz.

Thirty-three, thirty-four, seemed like the halcyon days of youth compared to where she was now, with only one month of her thirties left.

She sighed. _Bridget Jones is fucked._

The worst of it was that it really seemed that her relationship with Mark was truly over. They'd been together on and off—more on than off—for roughly seven years, but the last row they'd had seemed to be the inevitable, gruesome end. She had not heard from him for ten weeks now, the longest period of time she had ever not spoken to him since they had started to see each other. God knows she still loved him, and physically they had always been very compatible, but things had just gotten so tense and edgy that it seemed all they did in the last few months of their relationship was spend hours in silence, not saying anything for fear of saying the wrong thing.

It might have had something to do with her increasing anxiety that, at nearing age forty, her hopes of ever having a baby were growing dimmer and dimmer. She was convinced that her years of meaningless shagging and ingestion of contraceptive pills meant that she had doomed herself from ever having a child. Jude kept telling her it was bollocks, and she seemed to have the science to back it up, but none of it made any sense when trying and trying with Mark yielded no results. On top of all else, she felt guilty and self-centred for insisting on waiting as long as she did; she smiled wistfully recalling all of the times Mark had earnestly tried to cajole her into agreeing to try.

_Selfish old cow_, she thought, then added, with images in her mind's eye of the hugely pregnant Woney rubbing her stomach smugly, _except I can't even manage to be a proper cow._

Adding to that guilt was the long, ultimately unsuccessful engagement; in reaction to the welcome though sudden proposal, she supposed she didn't want Mark to feel pressured, like she wanted to rush him into marrying. So they didn't. There was also her own terror at the reality of the ceremony and of her life afterwards as a famous lawyer's wife. There was the inherent fear of losing her independence, not being able to go out with her friends when she wanted, not to be able to smoke in the house (or at all). She also couldn't say that Daniel Bloody Cleaver's one-time proclamation hadn't crossed her mind, the one about most lawyers' wives dying of boredom.

Marriage, like a baby, was something she always thought she might like to do in a year or two. And then…

It was all her fault, when it came down to it.

Shaz told her over and over again that she didn't need a man to define who she was, and realistically she knew this to be true. It didn't mean she missed Mark any less.

………

_"Hm," said Mark, his arm around her shoulders, her arm around his waist, as they gazed out into the night. They were taking a break from the hubbub of the annual New Year's Turkey Curry Buffet, getting a little fresh air, and keeping warm by huddling close together. "Maybe this time next year we'll have a little someone else to bring to the party."_

_ She must have stiffened a bit even as she said, "Maybe," because he turned her by her shoulder to face him._

_"Bridget," he said solemnly. "We're not getting any younger."_

_She cast her gaze down. He was right. "I know."_

_"You still want a baby, don't you?"_

_Her eyes flashed up to meet his. She knew what he was really asking, the part of the question that went unspoken: 'with me.' "Of course I do, Mark," she said wholeheartedly, taking his hand in both of hers, grasping it tightly. "Let's start trying."_

_He looked at her in disbelief, his brown eyes searching hers for some sign that maybe he had misheard. "Really?"_

_She nodded, tentatively at first, then more vigorously. She found herself beaming quite without conscious thought; the expression of pure joy on his face filled her heart with love. He then placed a hand on her cheek and drew her into a tender, quick kiss._

_"Dare I push my lucky streak," he began, "and ask you if you have decided on a dress? A date?" His tone, though playful, had an underlying concern to it that was very like his previous question's._

_She pulled him into an embrace. "I'm very close now," she said._

………

After lolling about her flat for the whole of that evening and watching bad television, her entryphone rang. Listlessly she pulled herself up off of the sofa, went to the entryphone, and picked it up. "Yes?" she asked.

She heard giggling, then someone—Tom, most likely—began humming a funeral dirge. Other female voices chimed in.

"Fuck off," she grumbled, tempted to hang up on them.

They howled uproariously. "Oh Bridge," said Jude, "you know we love you, and we're just teasing. Let us up."

"Funny way of showing it," she said, fighting tears in her eyes as she pressed the button to release the lock; it was, after all, too late in life to be forming a new Urban Family from scratch, too.

Shaz, Tom and Jude were upstairs in little time at all, bearing wine and pizzas. "Forty is really not so bad," said Shaz, which conjured up memories of Shaz' own fortieth birthday party, an evening that had consisted of a lot of drinking, cursing and crying, and not necessarily in that order.

"I'm kicking and screaming the whole way too," said Tom supportively, putting his arm around Bridget's shoulders and squeezing tightly. "Anyway. We were wondering how you wanted to celebrate."

"I don't want to celebrate anything," Bridget said sullenly. "I want to crawl in a hole and die. Bring on the Alsatians. My life is over."

"Your life is not over," said Shaz. "You've made it this far on—" She stopped, looking immediately regretful at what she seemed poised to say: _on your own_. Bridget bit back tears. "And you have all of us," Shaz continued brightly, holding up a bottle of wine.

At that she did start to cry, because it was true: she had the best friends in the world. Shaz, Jude and Tom set down the wine and food, then all enfolded her in a big group hug.

"Now come on," said Tom, breaking up the hug. "This wine does us no good still in the bottle, and the pizza is going to get cold, which would be a tragedy of epic proportions."

Bridget laughed; she could always count on Tom to lift her spirits.

After nearly two bottles of wine, an hour into the movie, and all of the pizza she could eat, Bridget was out of her funk and laughing with the lot of them. "I want you to promise me, though," she said with great gravity. "I don't want to hear another word about a party."

Jude and Shaz shared a look and nodded, before looking to Bridget again. "Oh, we promise."

"Absolutely," said Tom, grinning drunkenly.

………

As the ninth of November drew ever nearer, she at least was not pestered by her friends about what she wanted to do to celebrate. She alternately tried to ignore the date's approach, tried to convince herself that forty was only a number and that age was a state of mind, or pretended like she did not care at all. Deep down, though, she did care; every beaming mum she passed pushing a pram underscored the point. She would have thought by age forty she would have met some very specific life goals.

She knew she wasn't being fair to herself, though. In her time at the television studio, she had parlayed her creativity into a heavier participation in production; on-screen appearances, while rarer, became more polished. She could work at home when she liked and was actually, for the first time in many years, happy with her job. She was also being paid a handsome salary to do it.

There was no discounting the value of her friends, either. They were always there for her, always supported her, through the tear-soaked nights lamenting why she couldn't even get 'getting up the spout' right. They always knew what to say and what to do, and she was more grateful for that than she could ever express.

She was blessed to still have her parents, who were edging up on seventy and seemed in good health and fine spirits. Her mother in particular seemed not to be slowing down at all… as orange and as opinionated as ever.

She was proud of what could best (or at least most delicately) be described as ageing gracefully. She still looked in her early thirties—backed up by independent comments from people she did not know well, as well as observations made by Shaz and Jude, who accused her of harbouring a portrait in the closet doing her ageing for her. And while her waistline did not miraculously reduce to some unnaturally small measurement, neither did it nor her weight creep up, which also garnered glares from her best girlfriends.

She smiled, then felt teary. Reflections of this nature always came back around to thoughts of Mark.

………

_"I just don't understand how it's possible," said Mark, his tone as serious as his expression as he came up behind her in the bathroom, meeting her reflection's eyes with his own._

_"What?" Bridget asked, alarmed._

_"You," he said. He wrapped his arms around her shoulders, not letting her gaze go for a moment. "I keep ageing, and you…. People are going to accuse me of robbing cradles before too much longer, you know."_

_Honestly, he didn't look any different to her now then when they had met; he had turned forty not too long ago, and she suspected that he might be having an unfounded age-related crisis. She turned her head and kissed him on the cheek._

_"You're being silly," she said, looking at him in the mirror again. She swore he was actually pouting. "You look as wonderful and as handsome as ever."_

_"You're biased," he replied, tightening his embrace around her shoulders again. "I've got rampant grey hairs and deepening lines, and you look barely a day over thirty."_

_She suppressed a smile. "I think you're the one who's biased," she said. "Besides, a few greys make you look distinguished." She turned around and into a proper embrace, tracing her fingers over the hair on his temples, where the aforementioned greys had chosen to populate._

_"A lie perpetuated to make ageing men feel better," he murmured._

_"Did it work?" She felt his hands on the small of her back._

_"Mmm," he said, then kissed her. "Yes."_

………

At the café at which they were having lunch, Bridget looked across the table at her friend with high levels of suspicion, and with good reason.

"Just a massage. That's all?"

Magda looked offended. "Unless you want something more on your birthday…? I thought you didn't want a big party."

"I don't," she said emphatically. "I was just making sure you didn't have something else up your sleeve."

Magda made a dismissive sound, lifting her chin and looking as aristocratic as ever. "I'm a mother of three whose oldest is ten going on seventeen, Bridge. I'm far too busy to have anything up my sleeve but my arms."

Bridget smiled, then laughed. "All right."

"I can think of worse ways to spend a birthday, getting treated to a massage," said Magda with a grin and a wink. "I'll pick you up on Sunday at eleven, then."

Two days away. Her heart dropped like a stone. "All right."

"Fantastic. And then I'm fixing you supper. No point in spending your birthday alone."

Bridget had said she didn't want a party, but it depressed her that her friends were going to be unavailable for the day itself; she had hoped they would at least have spent the day with her. Jude had a job-related seminar to attend all weekend, one that she couldn't get out of; Tom said he might be back from a music festival in Birmingham in time for drinks after supper. Shaz asked her if she wanted to go see a movie in the afternoon and have dinner, and Bridget had tentatively agreed.

"Oh," said Bridget, then explained her previous plans.

"No problem," said Magda. "Just as easy to cook for seven as for six. I'll make a big pot of pasta. It'll be fun." Magda narrowed her eyes. "Are you sure you don't at least want a cake?"

"Maybe a pint of Ben and Jerry's," she said after a moment's reflection. "With a giant skull-and-crossbones-shaped candle stuck in it."

Magda smiled. "That's the spirit. Forty is not so bad, you know," she said; she had turned forty back in May. "Besides, you hardly look a day over thirty."

She smiled wistfully, thinking again of Mark. "Thanks."

………

As the masseur drove his fingertips directly into the hollow spots between muscles, as he worked out the knots within them, Bridget began to think she might have liked a party after all. Nothing big, but something with all of her friends, maybe her parents. Getting to forty was no small feat. She thought maybe she should have taken her moment in the limelight, after all.

No matter. Bridget had already talked via the telephone to her mother and father; the former had gone all fluttery and teary, hardly able to believe her only daughter was forty (with undertones of 'unmarried and childless' attached), while the latter sounded as he always did, filled with sincerity and quiet cheer, sounding as emotional as he ever had while proclaiming what joy she had brought to their lives.

Magda had advised upon pickup at eleven that she'd lied a little and had booked more than a massage: also included was a little time in the steam room, and afterwards, a facial. She had told Magda she really should not have done all of this, but Magda had been insistent. "It is the least I can do. Every woman needs to be treated like a queen on her birthday. Especially on her fortieth."

Bridget had actually not gotten depressed at the thought, which seemed a step in the right direction. She agreed.

After the spa day, she reflected, she would have her dinner with Magda, Jeremy, the kids and Sharon to look forward to. She was sure Magda had gotten a cake anyway—she would never confuse or disappoint her kids by celebrating a birthday without a cake—and she'd even see Tom after dinner. Perhaps Jude would get back to London in time to make the evening complete.

_You see?_ she told herself. _It will be a nice birthday, nonetheless._

"How do you feel?" asked Magda as they met in the steam room, each wearing terrycloth robes. Her auburn-haired friend was glowing and smiling broadly, her hair tucked up into a towel, much like Bridget's.

"Like a bundle of rubber bands," she said with a grin. "But ooof. That felt wonderful."

"I'm glad," she said. "Happy birthday, Bridge."

"Thanks, Magda," she said.

The facial was absolutely marvellous; after being patted dry and moisturised, she watched with a level of surprise as Jackie, her beautician, then began to make her up in subtle roses and peaches.

"Is this part of the deal?" Bridget asked hesitantly as dark brown mascara was swept onto her lashes.

Jackie smiled. "We can't very well send you out into the world without the finishing touches," she said. "How would we ever get repeat business?"

Bridget smiled. The woman made a good point, so she said nothing more as the application of makeup concluded.

"Were you wanting a trim?" Jackie asked.

"What?"

"Your hair."

"Um…" she said.

Jackie supplied, "It's part of the deal."

She wondered exactly how much Magda had spent on this spa day. "Then yes, I could use a trim. Bit of an update to the style, if you're feeling inclined." Jackie chuckled, then pulled out a very sharp-looking pair of small scissors, and got to work.

Emerging back into the lobby, Magda greeted Bridget with raised brows and a grin. "My, my," she said. "You look outstanding."

"I feel _so_ good," she said. "Thank you so much. You really shouldn't have spent—"

"Chuh," she retorted, holding up her hand. "If I can't treat one of my very best friends in the world, the godmother to two of my children, on her birthday, then it's just all over, really."

She felt emotional, but refused to cry and ruin her makeup. "You're too good to me."

"Chuh," she said again, grinning.

"I do look good," said Bridget, admiring her haircut—chin-length bob that accentuated the shape of her face, with the barest hint of fringe—and makeup in the mirror. "I'm really going to knock your children's socks off," she teased.

Magda laughed. "Well, you know Harry. He's a sucker for a pretty girl."

They walked out to Magda's car; Magda glanced to her wristwatch. "Don't need to start dinner for another couple of hours yet. Do you want to go home? Do some shopping? Or do you just want to come over?"

"I don't know, feel like maybe I should change my clothes," she said, indicating her trousers and jumper. "This does not seem nearly as nice now that my hair and makeup look so fancy."

"Oh, Bridge," she said, climbing behind the wheel of her car. "You look fine. Better than fine. Gorgeous. But maybe…"

"What?"

Magda looked positively conspiratorial. "Let's stop by Marks and Spencer's on the way home. I saw a dress there the other day that I thought would look absolutely stunning on you. You deserve to look stunning, beyond stunning, on your birthday."

She thought about it for a few minutes, then grinned; even though it was just Magda and her family, she did feel like she ought to splash out a little that night. Additionally, the thought of spending some time before dinner with her goddaughter Constance pleased her greatly. "Then let's go. And after that, I'd love to just come over," she replied, buckling herself in.

"Brilliant," said Magda. "Let me just phone Jeremy and make sure I don't need to pick up anything at the store while I'm out." She pulled out her mobile and pressed a speed-dial number. "Jeremy? It's me. Calling to see if we need anything." There was a pause. "All right, then. We're stopping by for a dress, then we'll be home soon."

The dress was as if it were made for her. Short, flaring sleeves, royal blue in colour, with a faux wrap front, which provided her chest with some nice, uplifting definition. It was fitted close to the body just under her breasts before flaring gently out into an A-line skirt that fell to just above her knees, giving the impression of a smaller waist than she had, and very forgiving of slight bulges on the tummy and hips.

"Oh," said Magda, bringing her hands up to her mouth. "That looks… I have no words. You have to wear this dress home."

Bridget grinned, turning a little in front of the mirror. "I love it," she said. "I'm glad you spotted it. But you know, I can't leave without some shoes too. Trainers with a dress like this…"

Magda laughed.

She decided on a pair of kitten-heels—stylish without adding too much height or wobble—and along with some hosiery, she ducked into a change room with her purchases and dressed in her new outfit.

"Perfect," said Magda as she emerged.

It was, she thought. Quite perfect.

………

As they drove, the sky already started towards the dusky blue of twilight; Bridget could only think what a lovely day she'd had, with nary a mention of turning forty. _This is it_, thought Bridget, feeling more positive then she had in a long while. _A brand new decade. Things will be wonderful._

Magda indicated then turned into her drive and disengaged the engine. "You feeling hungry?" she asked.

"I am," she replied.

"Well, Constance will likely put you through you paces before dinner's done. Are you up for it?"

Bridget grinned. "I think I can handle it."

Magda smiled, and with that they approached the house. Magda turned her key in the door and pushed it open. It seemed unusually dark and quiet in the house for a family with three pre-teen kids in it. "Jeremy?" she called out.

"We're back here," called Jeremy. "Watching a movie."

Magda rolled her eyes, slipping out of her coat. "Jeremy's idea of child care: putting on a Disney DVD for the millionth time. Why don't you go on back there? I'll put the pasta on."

"You don't want help?"

"Bridget," Magda scolded. "And risk getting sauce on that dress? No. Besides, it's your birthday. You relax."

Bridget smiled. "Thanks."

Bridget hung her coat on the coat rack, set her handbag down in the entryway, then made her way back towards what Magda referred to as their family room, complete with oversized sofa, widescreen television and a collection of movies that would have made Blockbuster Video envious. The door was slightly ajar and the room was dark. She pushed it and announced herself: "So, do we have Belle or Mulan to—"

She stopped speaking. She had to. At her entrance, the lights in the room went to full brightness, and at once, a cacophony of voices shouted out at her:

"Surprise!"

There, all wearing bright, beaming smiles and shiny black party hats, were Tom, Shaz, Jude, Simon, Jeremy, Constance, Harry and Jack; the latter of the three, being children, bounced up and down excitedly and repeated "Surprise! Surprise!" over and over again.

This biggest surprise of all, however, did not catch her attention immediately. Standing at the back of the crowd, wearing an expression best described as gobsmacked, was Mark. He looked immaculate as always, dressed in unwrinkled khaki trousers, which he always liked to wear with the ivory jumper he was wearing now. His hair was cropped as it always was, if a little longer and thicker on top than she was used to seeing, though still quite becoming on him. The grey at his temples was quite dense now.

Bridget felt completely winded.

* * *


	2. two of three

**A Brand New Decade**  
Part 2 of 3

By S. Faith, © 2009

Words: 10,859 (total; in three almost-equal parts)  
Rating: M / R (mostly due to the f-bomb)  
Summary, Disclaimer, Notes: See Part 1.

Again, "amnyous", thank you for the review, but I felt that your describing what you wanted to happen was too close to... well, just keep reading. :D

* * *

"Surprise, Bridge." With an intonation of pure evil in her voice, Magda spoke up from behind her. "We couldn't let you go without a party. You mean too much to all of us."

She turned to look at Magda, tears threatening her makeup again. "When…? How…?"

"All I was charged with was distracting you for the day, which we all clubbed together for," said Magda. "Everything else was them." Magda indicated her three other best friends.

"You made us promise not to talk about a party," said Shaz with the glee of someone who'd successfully pulled off a major coup. "You said nothing about planning one behind your back."

She laughed even as she fought back tears of happiness.

Tom reached up and put a party hat on Bridget, then kissed her cheek. "You look amazing, birthday girl," he said affectionately.

"You do, Bridget," said another male voice from very close by. She turned and looked straight into a familiar ivory jumper. It was, of course, Mark. "Happy birthday."

She smiled, blinking away dampness in her eyes. "Thank you," she said.

Quietly he said, "I hope my being here isn't—"

"No, no," she said, interrupting him, spontaneously giving him a hug, glad that he cared enough to come, even if he had been absent from her life for over three months. "I'm very glad to see you."

She felt his arms come up and around her in a very tight embrace. "I'm very glad to see you too," he said, his voice clearly emotional to her ears.

She pulled back, looked up at him, and wondered if, were they alone, he might actually kiss her, with the way he was gazing at her with such fondness.

"Happy birthday Auntie Bridget!" It was Jack, wrapping his arms around her legs, nearly knocking her over. "Come on! We have to eat so we can have cake!"

"And presents!" finished Harry.

She laughed, running her hands over Harry's and Jack's short ginger hair, casting her eyes to Mark again; for a moment, he looked very sad before his expression changed back to something more neutral.

"You look so pretty, Auntie Bridget." It was Constance, who, at age ten, seemed to be taller every time she saw the girl.

"And so do you," Bridget said, giving her a big hug, before hugging Jeremy, Magda, and then, one by one, everyone else at the party, especially Simon, whom she had not seen in far too long. Simon gave her a tight squeeze before pecking her cheek.

"Jack's right," said Jeremy. "Let's eat. Got a nice buffet of stuff in the dining room."

Bridget blinked in amazement, still overwhelmed by everything.

"Catering, darling," said Tom. "Don't think we would cook and possibly kill you on your big day, did you?"

She laughed; with Shaz' arm around her on one side, and Jude's on the other, they all walked to the dining room, where a most impressive spread of food sat on the side board, and table settings around the generous dining room table.

As she fixed a plate of food, someone started up some music, and she laughed; it was music from her teen years. The overriding thought in her head, though, was wondering how Mark had come to be here. Did Sharon invite him? And then she remembered: he'd probably been told about it by Jeremy at work.

Strangely, she hadn't thought of Mark once that day before that moment, seeing him at the back of the crowd, when her heart had lurched in her chest at the realisation that she still loved him deeply. She glanced up, saw him loading up his own plate with all manner of comestibles, and smiled to herself. Despite everything that had happened, she was glad to share this day with him; it would have been the first birthday of the last eight birthdays she would have been apart from him if he hadn't come.

At that moment, he looked up at her and smiled too.

A glass of sparkling wine was thrust under her nose by Magda. "I insist on a toast." Magda then pointed at the table, at which she was given a place of honour at the head.

"Well," said Bridget with a cockeyed grin. "If you _insist_."

She took her seat at the head of the table and divested herself of her party hat, as it as really cutting under her chin. She saw that to one side of her sat Constance, and on the other, Mark's name on the tented card. Her stomach did a little flip. She loved her lovely friends, who knew the depth of her feelings for Mark, and knew how their breakup (or rather, fizzle-out) had devastated her.

Suddenly, Harry came up and pushed his sister. "Why do you always get to sit next to Auntie B? It's not fair."

"Because I'm a girl," said Constance, pushing back, "and I'm the oldest, that's why. And I'm her godchild."

"I am too! I wanna sit there!" shouted Harry, looking angry and frustrated to tears as he punched her in the arm.

"Ow!" yelled Constance, tears welling in her eyes, her hand covering her injury. "Mum!"

"Children!" hissed Magda.

Bridget said, scowling, "No fighting at my party!"

"I have an idea," said Mark calmly; with great authority, he commanded, "Harry, come here." Harry did as told. "How about if you and I trade seats? I'll sit next to your sister, and you can sit here. But you have to apologise to your sister and promise me no more punching, because gentlemen do not punch." An image popped up in her mind of Mark punching out Daniel Cleaver, and it was all she could do not to laugh. "Does that sound like a deal?"

Harry nodded solemnly, then went over to his sister to apologise. Constance looked to Bridget for guidance as the nearest adult female. She nodded to indicate she should accept like a lady would. Jack, the youngest of the lot of them at age seven, was happily seated beside his dad, whom he idolised. Bridget was thankful that he, too, did not want to sit beside her.

"A toast," said Magda, holding her glass aloft. "To Bridget, dearest of friends, kindest of hearts, sweetest of souls. Welcome to your forties. The best is yet to come."

Her vision went blurry as she looked around the table at so many warm and loving looks, as everyone said, "Hear, hear!"; everyone, it seemed, except Mark, who only looked at her with an intensity that paralleled the first birthday they'd spent together eating blue soup and omelette. Her face flushed and she dropped her eyes as she and everyone else sipped from their flutes.

"I don't know what to say," she admitted in a tremulous voice, after lowering her glass again. "I'm blown away by all of this. Thank you."

"You deserve it," said Mark automatically, at which everyone else made sounds of agreement. She turned to look at him, meeting his gaze and blushing a little, before turning her attention to her dinner.

Mark being an extra seat away was almost as bad as being on the other end of the table; they could hardly have anything resembling a private conversation. However, it did afford her an opportunity to watch him interacting with Constance, who remembered him from previous visits and seemed to be more enamoured of speaking with him then with Auntie B. If Constance calling him 'Uncle Mark' like she did when they were together bothered him, he didn't show it. He was wonderful with her, talking to her like the intelligent young lady that she was; then again, had always talked to her in that manner, even earlier in her childhood.

"Aunt Bridget," said Harry earnestly from her right hand side. "We got a really, _really_ good cake."

"Is it chocolate?" she asked.

"Oh no," he said with great solemnity. "It's made from dirt. With mud frosting."

Bridget's eyebrows rose. "Dirt? Really?"

"Yes!" he insisted; he was not yet, at age nine, so sophisticated in his fabrications that he could keep the smile from the corner of his mouth. "And the dirt's from France. The best French dirt."

She glanced up, saw that Mark had his ear on the conversation. "I hear the best dirt's from Spain," Mark offered.

"No _way_," said Harry. "I've tasted them all. France is best."

"I bow, then, to your expertise," said Mark. He winked at Bridget before returning his attention to the last of his dinner, a smile lingering on his lips.

God, she'd missed him.

"And what shall we be having with our dirt cake?" asked Bridget of Harry.

"Frozen space goo," he answered seriously. She bit on her lip to keep from laughing. "It's very rare, but this is a special occasion, 'cause you're as old as Mummy now."

"Harry," said Magda threateningly, flushing red. Others around the table chuckled.

"Well," said Bridget. "I very much look forward to my dirt cake and frozen space goo."

"Hey," said Harry petulantly. "You didn't ask about flavours."

"My apologies," she said, bringing her hand up to her chest in mock embarrassment to have caused such affront. "Please, do tell me about the available flavours of this rare delicacy."

His good mood restored, he said, "Well, there is Mars goo, which is pink, and Moon goo, which is white… and the stuff that looks like chocolate? It's not. It's really Venus goo."

"I can't wait to try them all."

"I hope you like them, Auntie B."

"I'm sure I'll love them," she replied, eating the last bite of food. She glanced up as she pulled the fork from her mouth only to see Mark was looking at her again with a soft smile and somewhat, well, gooey eyes.

They each brought their plates to the dish bin, all except for Bridget, whose empty plate was swept up and away by Mark. "Thank you," she said, rising to her feet.

"My pleasure," he replied, then he walked away.

"Harry's been studying space and the planets in school," explained Magda as she came nearer to Bridget. Even closer, she said quietly, "Mark being here really is okay? I mean, we weren't sure, but—"

"Don't give it a second thought," said Bridget. "I am truly happy to see him."

Magda grinned. "Thought you might be."

"Cake! Presents!" squealed Jack, who was tugging on her hand.

"Leave it to him to keep things moving along," said Magda. "Jack, not quite yet. We adults want to relax a little before we try to eat more."

"Aw, Mum," he said with a pout before bouncing away.

"We don't exactly have Pin the Tail on the Donkey set up," began Bridget, "or do we?" She mimed horror.

"No party games, I promise. Just… well. You'll see."

Bridget felt a tiny tinge of real terror.

They all filed out and back to the family room, where Bridget was invited to take a place of honour on the large sofa. Constance sat beside her again, as did Harry.

"What's this?" asked Bridget.

"You'll see," said Jude, echoing Magda portentously.

Mark sat beside Harry. Again, he was too far away.

The lights dimmed, Jeremy pressed play, and the telly screen flashed, larger than life by multitudes, a picture of herself as a baby. They all cheered. She felt herself chuckling despite her mortification.

She realised within a beat what the song was: 'Just The Way You Are' by Billy Joel. She was sure its choice was no accident.

The baby photo dissolved and was replaced by one of her as a toddler, blonde curls askew as she clung to the side of a sofa. Next came a picture of her as a child on a tricycle, then one of her in a dress in a paddling pool; she could not resist glancing to Mark, who smirked as he glanced back to her. He leaned into Harry and whispered something; Harry stood and Mark scooted over next to Bridget, their hips touching, before Harry took a perch on Mark's knees. Harry seemed pleased with his new vantage point. Mark reached for her right hand and squeezed it… and didn't let go.

Next came a flood of pictures of her through her adolescent years, some of which would have, under other circumstances, made her die of humiliation: winged specs, orthodontics, bad haircut. She only honestly cared at present about the hand enveloping hers, and what it really meant.

After that were some university pics, younger versions of Shaz and Tom along with her toasting with beer to something she had long since forgotten, and finally, some of her as an adult, from fire station fiasco to a lovely photo of her with Mark. She furrowed her brow. She vaguely remembered the occasion—a past garden party where she was looking very thin in a floaty white dress and he, very dapper in a dress shirt and tan trousers—but it was not a photo she'd ever seen before. She and Mark looked so happy together. _Maybe it's Magda's_, she thought. _I'll have to ask for a copy._

At the end, some text came sweeping onto the screen, one line at a time:

WE LOVE YOU…  
JUST THE WAY YOU ARE!  
LOVE:  
YOUR ADORING URBAN FAMILY

At that, she really did burst into tears of happiness; within a moment a linen handkerchief was pressed into the hand Mark had claimed but released just as the lights came up and everyone began to applaud. Harry jumped from Mark's lap, as distracted as his siblings were by thoughts of cake, as Mark looked at her. As she calmed her tears, dabbed under her eyes with the cloth, she mouthed a _Thanks_. He acknowledged it with a nod before he rose to his feet, then held out his hand to help her up. Silently she accepted it and stood.

"Presents or cake?" asked Magda.

"I couldn't eat anything more right now," said Bridget.

"Presents, then. You sit back down, we'll fetch your loot."

Bridget smiled as she watched most of the room file out to grab her gifts; Jude, Jeremy and the children remained. She then looked back to Mark, whose brows were drawn together.

"Yes?" she asked.

"You've got a bit of… right here." He pointed to the corner of his right eye.

"What, here?" Mirroring his motion, she pointed to her left eye.

"No, other side," he said. "Here. Give me the handkerchief."

He took it from her, then, holding her cheek in his left hand, he wiped at the corner of her eye with the linen. The feel of his fingers on her face had an unexpected effect on her; she suddenly felt she couldn't talk or move.

"There you are," he said, focused on her now-unsullied eye. "No more smudge." As he drew his hand away, his finger pads, his thumb, brushed along her skin.

"Thanks," she said in a small, strangled voice.

"Anytime," he replied quietly, smiling again, stepping back and clearing his throat just as Magda came in with an armful of presents.

"Oh my God," said Bridget; her shock increased when she saw that just about each of them bore equal amounts of gifts. "What is all of this?"

"Happy birthday," said Shaz with a grin. "We were all feeling very generous."

She brought her hands to her face again, covering her mouth. "I don't deserve—"

"You f—" Sharon's eyes darted to the children, then she amended, "You darn well do deserve it." Bridget heard Mark laugh low in his throat. "Now sit down and prepare to be lavished with goodies."

She did as told, and one by one she revealed the depth of her friends' thoughtfulness: pyjamas, candles, artwork, books, movies and so on. Near the end of it, she came to one she knew was from Mark; the glossy, minimalistic paper, the crisp edges and tasteful ribbon bespoke a professional wrapping job. Heart pounding in her chest, she untied the ribbon, slit through the tape with a fingernail; she wondered what he would see fit to give her in the company of all of her friends.

She opened the box, pulled back the tissue paper inside, and when she saw what was inside, she smiled, then began to laugh, looking up to Mark. "Thank you," she said, holding it up. It was a brand new journal; it was bound with cordovan-dyed leather that was embossed with an intricate knotwork design. The paper was handmade and was gilt-edged. Next to it in the box was a Mont Blanc pen in a box. "It's beautiful."

He smiled, nodded slightly. "You're welcome."

She put the lid on the box then set it down and Constance, her little helper, took it off to the table to make room for the next gift. The next three boxes were gifts that were made by the kids, hand painted coffee mugs that they'd made in craft class. Bridget smiled at the three of them, who smiled back proudly. "I'll use them every day," she said.

The last of the gifts, a brand new makeup kit from Colour Me Beautiful courtesy of Jude, was unwrapped, and thanks were made, when Jack shouted out:

"Cake!"

Everyone laughed.

"Yes, darling, it's time for cake," said Magda. "I'll put on some tea and coffee and get the cake all set up. Constance, Harry, Jack, come on; you can help me with the candles." For a terrifying moment, Bridget wondered if they were truly going to try and get forty candles on the cake. Jeremy, like a dutiful husband, popped up and said he'd finish clearing off the table to make room for cake and ice cream. Mark offered to help, and the two of them left.

"Having a good time, Bridgeline?" asked Tom, plopping down on the couch next to her and wrapping his arm around her shoulders.

"I'm having a great time," she said, closing her eyes for a moment and smiling. "Thank you so much for lying to me and telling me you would be out of town." They all chuckled. "I'm glad you decided to put this together for me."

"You're welcome," said Jude, standing before her. "We figured deep down inside, you really wanted the party."

"The attention, more like," teased Sharon from beside Jude. Bridget stuck her tongue out playfully.

"Love the hair," said Simon, sitting to her left, putting his arm around her too. "You look _fantastic_."

She smiled. "I feel fantastic," she said.

"I haven't seen you in far too long," Simon continued. "We definitely need to remedy that."

"Definitely! I'm so glad you're back. You should come out with us sometime," said Bridget.

"So," Simon said, grabbing her left hand, staring at her ring. Fuck. She forgot that she still wore her engagement ring out of habit and to keep unwanted male attention away. "Married yet? Or—"

Her face went crimson and he stopped speaking when she tore her hand back from him. "Please," whispered Bridget. "Not now."

Simon looked understandably confused. "But isn't that bloke who was sitting—"

"_Simon_," said Bridget. "Not now. I'll explain later."

"Okay, fine," he said, looking wounded.

"Oh, Simon," Bridget said sorrowfully, even as she smiled at him. "I'm sorry." She turned to hug him. "I am glad to see you, and I'm glad you came."

"Thanks, Bridge."

"We're ready for cake."

It was Mark. She broke from the hug and turned to look at him; his expression had gone neutral, stony. "Thanks," she said brightly, rising to her feet. "Are you all right?"

He looked from her to Simon, then back to her. "I'm fine."

The penny dropped. He had seen her hugging Simon. Could he have possibly been jealous? "Mark," she said. "I don't think you've ever met Simon. He's been in…" She looked to Simon. "Where was it? Peru?"

"Peru."

"…Peru for the last five years. He's an old mate of mine."

She saw the line of his jaw soften. She was touched, really, that he still felt jealous about her around other men. "It's… nice to meet you, Simon."

Simon grinned. "Nice to meet you, Mark," he said. With a devilish grin he asked, "D'ya know Bridget well?"

She was mortified, but Mark betrayed no emotion as he thought about his answer. Finally he said, "I gave her that ring." With a tight, stiff smile, he turned and headed towards where cake and ice cream were happening.

Great. They were already fighting without even getting to talk about anything.

She popped up from the sofa (hearing Simon offering apologies for what he'd said, but she'd deal with him later) and caught up to Mark, who stopped walking. "I'm sorry," she said. "Simon was just being an arse."

She saw his jaw tighten momentarily again before he turned and looked at her. "You still wear it," he said quietly.

"Yes," she said; she knew he meant the ring. "I do."

He looked thoughtful again before he spoke. "I'm sorry if my appearance here was something of an ambush," he began. "I saw the shock on your face when you looked at me."

"I saw the shock on yours, too."

"That's because you look breathtaking," he said simply, which surprised her. He continued. "If the children weren't so keen on cake, I'd ask if we could talk right now."

Her pulse raced. "We can talk later," she said.

He nodded. "I'd like that," he said.

"Auntie B!" shouted Jack from the dining room. "The candles are lit! _Hurry!_"

With a smile he added, "I'll take you home later, if that's all right."

She nodded.

The singing, the blowing out of candles, the cutting and the serving of cake and ice cream were all something of a blur; her mind was preoccupied with the upcoming talk with Mark set for after the party. Upon regaining some of her senses, Bridget proceeded to compliment Harry on a very fine dirt cake (chocolate with fudge frosting) and the best frozen space goo (she had chosen chocolate ice cream) she'd ever had the good fortune to taste.

Harry beamed proudly. "I thought you might like the Venus stuff," he said matter-of-factly. "Mum's book says that girls are from Venus."

She almost choked on her cake. Sharon sputtered and let out a guffaw. Magda turned bright red, but was obviously holding back a laugh.

"I suppose," said Mark in perfect deadpan, looking at his vanilla ice cream, "I should have chosen the pink."

* * *


	3. three of three

**A Brand New Decade**  
Part 3 of 3

By S. Faith, © 2009

Words: 10,859 (total; in three almost-equal parts)  
Rating: M / R (mostly due to the f-bomb)  
Summary, Disclaimer, Notes: See Part 1.

* * *

_She had been lying on the sofa all night, drowning in self-pity and feeling a failure, when he came in. He sat down beside her, looked to the television, then looked to her. "Something wrong?" he asked, putting his hand on her arm._

_She shrugged, not looking away from the screen._

_"Bridget, tell me what's wrong."_

_"Same thing that's always wrong," she mumbled. "I've spent a year's wages on pregnancy tests, and I can't manage to get one of them to turn blue."_

_"Darling," he said. "It will happen when it's meant to happen."_

_"But what if it never happens?" she said, looking at him at last, tears springing to her eyes._

_He drew his hand away; she could see the sinews moving in his jaw, highlighted by the blue haze of the telly. "Why not stop worrying about it, and focus on something you do have more control over?"_

_"Like…?" she prompted, though she already knew what he was going to say._

_"Like our wedding," he said. "It's been almost seven years, Bridget, since we got engaged. Seven. It's starting to feel like maybe you don't want to…" He drifted off._

_"Of course I want to," she said, pushing herself up._

_"That isn't what I mean. It feels like you don't want to be a wife if you can't be a mother," he explained. Her vision went blurry; her lower lip began to tremble. "I don't want to continue on like this, stuck in limbo for the rest of our lives. I want you as my wife, regardless how long it takes for the baby to come." He took her hand. "It's simple enough to go down to a registrar and make it legal—"_

_"Mark," she said, a tear plopping onto her cheek. "Don't do this to me right now."_

_He gazed at her with great intensity. "If not now, Bridget, then when?"_

_She didn't answer. He released her hand, then stood up._

_"Mark?"_

_He was heading for the door._

_"Don't go," she said._

_"I can't be here right now, Bridget," he said without turning around. "You've made it clear how you feel; I won't keep bothering you about it. Good night. Goodbye."_

_The finality with which he said 'goodbye' as he left made her stomach sink. She cried herself to sleep. A few days later, she called, but he did not answer. When he didn't call back that night, or the next, or the week after that, she figured she'd finally ruined things for good._

………

"I hope you had a good birthday," said Jude, her voice muffled by Bridget's hair as they embraced.

"It was an excellent birthday," she said, feeling emotional again. "I really don't feel like I deserved it."

"You always do," Jude said as she pulled away, and smiled. Everyone was preparing to leave at the same time; it wasn't terribly late, but tomorrow was Monday, and the children needed to be in bed (Magda had lamented that she'd be lucky to get them sleeping by ten, with all of the sugar coursing through their veins).

"It was, then, a major success," said Bridget, as she felt Tom embrace her from behind, then Shaz, too. "Thank you all."

"Thank you for being born," said Tom, pecking her forehead as she laughed, "so we could have a really good excuse to throw this party."

"Thank her parents for having sex, then," joked Simon.

Bridget managed a smile, though felt herself slide into a slight depression, thinking of sex and babies… and Mark. "Right, there you go."

"I've put all of your gifts in the boot." It was Mark, dressed in his overcoat, his features inscrutable as usual. "Whenever you're ready."

"I'm ready," she said; she had already said goodbye to everyone else, and took a moment to slip into her coat. Mark, ever gallant, helped her into it. "Thanks again, everyone."

As Mark preceded her out, Magda came up and gave her one last hug. "Hope everything works out," she whispered.

"Me too," Bridget whispered back.

Once they were outside, walking to his car, they reverted to silence. When they got to the car, he opened the door for her. It wasn't until he was behind the wheel that he spoke. "Your flat, then?"

She wondered for a moment if it was a good idea to have their long overdue talk anywhere but neutral ground; perhaps a coffee shop or a pub would do better. "That's fine with me," she found herself saying instead, "if it's fine with you."

"It's fine with me," he said. He then turned the key in the ignition and within a moment they were off.

The presents had all fit within two rather large carrier bags, and Mark carried them up to the top floor flat, setting them down just at the top of the stairs before slipping out of his coat.

"Do you want me to make some coffee?" she asked, hanging up her own.

"No, thank you," he said. "Come. Let's sit."

She felt like she was being taken to task like a naughty schoolgirl, at least until he placed his hand tenderly on her waist and led her towards the sofa.

She waited for him to talk, because clearly he had something he wanted to say. She was not wrong. He took her hand in his, met her eyes with his. "First off, I want to apologise for walking out that night. I should not have left you in that state. It was wrong, and I'm sorry."

She pursed her lips to keep them from trembling. "You should not have left me, full stop. Three months, Mark, without a word."

"I'm sorrier for that than I can ever say," he continued. "Please let me finish." He took in a great breath. "I hope that I can make you understand the source of my frustration. I felt like you didn't really want to marry me, didn't _want_ me, if we couldn't have a baby."

"Oh Mark," she said. "That's not true."

"I know that, logically speaking," he said. "But it doesn't mean I didn't doubt myself, somehow."

She nodded. "It's all I've thought about, the closer I've gotten to forty. It was like I finally had what I'd always wanted just within my reach, but somehow couldn't make it work." She sniffed. "It wasn't you. You were more patient than any other man would have been. It was me. I felt a failure. I _was_ a failure."

"That, my darling, is where you are wrong." The sound of 'darling' from his lips was emotionally overwhelming. She took in a deep breath.

"How can you say that?" she said. "I couldn't get pregnant. I kept putting off the wedding."

"This is where your reasoning is faulty," he said gently.

She drew her brows together.

"I had a scheduled check-up a few days after I… saw you last. I decided to mention to my doctor that we'd been trying in earnest for a couple of years, at least. He decided to run some tests on me."

She was suddenly alarmed. She was certain he was going to tell her he was dying, and he had spent these three plus months putting his affairs in order. "You're okay, I hope."

"You don't have to look like that," he said; it seemed he had read her mind. "I'm fine, except for wishing I'd done it sooner. It was me, all along."

"I don't understand."

"Sperm, Bridget," he said. "If there's no sperm, there's no chance for a baby."

She brought her free hand to her mouth. She wanted to cry. She would never be able to have a baby with him. "Oh my God, Mark."

He squeezed her hand. "You don't have to look like that, either."

"You're taking it awfully well," she said. "Why didn't you tell me sooner? My God." She thought of him bearing this bad news all on his own, when she could have been there for him, comforting him. She hated herself; she could have at least reached out to him.

"I had more tests. I wanted to know the cause."

"And?"

At last he smiled. "Blocked ducts. Corrected by surgery."

She blinked in her surprise.

"I've started running again," he continued, "and taking vitamin supplements. I've also… cut back my workload. Cut back my stress levels."

"That's good."

"It's been two and a half months, Bridget," he said plaintively. "My tests… the count is good now. Nice and high. And motile." She swore he was going to cry. "I think I can fix one thing, if you're willing to take steps to fix the other."

It was the strangest re-proposal she had ever heard, but she wasn't about to say no. "I guess I can make some phone calls in the morning," she said calmly. "How hard can it be to arrange a wedding, anyway?" It was only then that a smile burst out across her face.

His short, sharp laugh bespoke his utter relief, and he pulled her into his arms, his hand cradling the back of her head. She wrapped her arms around him and pulled herself up against him. "It was stupid and wrong for me not to see you sooner," he said, "but I didn't want to come to you before the problem was solved."

"You're right," she said. "It was stupid and wrong for you to stay away. I forgive you, though." She pulled back and met his eyes, a smile still on her face. On impulse, she pressed her lips to his, kissing him passionately until a thought raced through her mind, and she reared back.

"What is it?" he asked.

"Wanted to make sure… well, you know. Everything was all… good to go."

He realised what she meant, and he started to laugh. "If you mean am I ready to make good on my end of the deal as soon as tonight… yes. I'm ready." He ran his fingers through her hair, admiration for her new cut evident in his eyes. "You really do look amazing."

"My bedroom is in less than amazing condition," she said. "If I'd've known—"

"Bridget, your bedroom is always in less than amazing condition," he teased. "That's not what interests me about it." He leaned forward and kissed her again. "Of course, _our_ bedroom will be a sight to behold."

"Mm," she said, smiling, kissing him again. "I'm looking forward to upgrading."

He laughed, and with that, he stood, tugging her hand and pulling her to her feet before sweeping her up under the knees and into his arms.

"Come, love," he said. "We have work to do."

She chuckled as he walked with her in his arms back to her room.

………

"As much as I loved seeing that dress on you," Mark said the next morning over coffee in bed, "I rather loved seeing you out of it more."

She felt herself blush, then reached out to run her fingers over the grey in his temple. He hadn't been kidding when he said he'd been running again; he was better toned than he'd ever been, and had stamina to put her to shame. She was thankful she could work from home, as she wasn't sure she could face commentary about the state of her gait today. "You know," she said with mock-seriousness, "I'm not a young girl anymore. It may take us a few tries to, you know, get it right."

He chuckled. "I'm willing to stick it out, as the case may be." Turning serious, he said, "If we're not successful right away… well, there are tests they could do on you, and other methods of impregnation if the traditional method isn't quite hitting the mark."

She smiled. "I'd prefer to keep it out of the lab if we can at all avoid it."

"I know. I just don't want you to lose hope," he said. "I did a lot of reading during my treatment."

"I don't doubt it," she said, leaning back into the pillow, dropping her hand back down to drape over her stomach and gazing up to him.

He reached over her to set his now-empty cup down on the nightstand, then resumed looking at her. "I'm glad," he said. "Glad I'm not a slave to a schedule anymore."

"You do seem happier."

"Oh, that's not what's making me happy," he said. "This makes me happy." He put his hand over hers before sliding it around to her hip as he leaned forward and kissed her again.

Bridget was very, _very_ glad she could work from home, though an initial check-in at one p.m. did garner some commentary from her boss.

………

Plans for a wedding came together very quickly, helped by Mark's connections in the legal world; they had a licence within a week. The date was set for New Year's Day—a new year, a new beginning, and, teased Mark, he would not be likely to forget their anniversary that way—and Bridget was surprised at how little stress she felt about the whole thing happening at last. Her mother arranged for the church in Grafton Underwood, and it was decided that the ceremony would be simple and intimate, with only family and friends. Afterwards, they would go to the Darcys' estate for a wedding dinner.

Remembering her earlier frustration with dress shopping, she decided to find a seamstress to make a dress out of ivory silk for her, one that mirrored the lines of the dress she'd worn to her fortieth birthday party, the one Mark had liked so much. She didn't tell him; she only said she had a dress. That was good enough for him.

Bridget moved into Mark's house in early December. It was strange thinking of the place as hers too; he told her that if she preferred, they could look for somewhere new to live, somewhere they could call truly theirs. She nodded, thankful for his thoughtfulness, but she thought given enough time and perhaps a bit of a design budget, she would feel quite comfortable there. Besides, it wasn't as if the flat would totally be out of her life; Shazzer begged her to sell it to her, and she agreed. Mark joked that she could still visit it on weekends and holidays.

………

Christmas Day, one week until the wedding, and Bridget woke up feeling somewhat nervous and uneasy. Mark was gone, undoubtedly on his run; she was sure he had intended to return to her before she awoke. The fact that it was Christmas was not about to stop him, and she intended on trying to work up to joining him before too long. After all, it had worked wonders for him.

Smiling at the thought, she sat up. The big bed in his—_their_, she self-corrected—insanely white room felt more and more homey every day, and he did promise she could buy some new things to decorate after the wedding. As she sat up, though, she realised that she had to pee in the worst way.

She stood up, thinking about her previous obsession with pregnancy tests, that building hope inevitably followed by crushing defeat. She shook her head. She was not going to start that vicious cycle all over again. She had a couple of tests at the ready if needed, but had sworn to herself that she would only try one if she was unaccountably moody, or late by more than a few days—

She blinked, suddenly realising that she actually was late by more than a week. The last thing she wanted, though, was for Mark to return to find her in a funk when three minutes' worth of time had told her she had been imagining things again.

_But what if I'm not?_ she thought. _What if I could give him the best Christmas present he would ever want?_

She scrambled to her feet and went into the loo. She fished out one of the tests and, with a well-practiced posture, euphemistically got the test to working. She set it down on the box on the sink, then, after finishing her business, sat on the closed toilet seat, watching the minute hand on the ornate little clock, becoming almost mesmerised by it until she realised five minutes had passed.

She picked up the test with an enormous lump in her throat.

Then she saw the result.

………

Mark didn't come home for a good half-hour afterwards. She had settled herself back under the sheets and, when she heard his footfalls on the stairs, feigned sleep.

She heard the door open then close, then felt the bed sink as he sat beside her. His fingers brushed against her temple, undoubtedly pushing her hair out of her eyes. "Happy Christmas, sleepyhead," he said tenderly. She smiled, then turned over to look at him. He looked so sexy all dishevelled and sweaty after his jogs. "I'm just back from a jog and could use to take a quick shower, if you'd like to join me. Then we can have Christmas morning—breakfast, gifts, and so on—before the drive to Grafton Underwood."

She smiled. "Yeah. I'd like that." She reached out and tugged on the front of his shirt, which was quite damp with sweat. He leaned forward and kissed her before sitting up again.

"I'll get the water going," he said, then rose. "Trust me, you don't want me anywhere near you after a run." He went into the loo.

"I don't know," she called back, pushing the sheets off of her. "All wild and masculine is pretty damned attractive."

He didn't say anything at first; when he called her name, his voice was devoid of all previous good spirits.

"Yes?"

When she entered the loo, she saw he had the test's box in his hand. "Bridget. Where did you get this?"

"From the cupboard. I had a few from… before."

"Bridget," he said sternly. "I told you not to obsess about this. It might take time, and I don't want you writing off our efforts or getting discouraged due to one negative reading."

"But Mark—"

"Please, love. No 'but's. Negative feedback is not healthy—"

Unable to contain herself any longer, she burst out with, "But it wasn't negative."

It was not exactly what she'd had in mind for breaking the news about a potential future offspring.

His mouth hung open. "It wasn't negative?"

She grinned. "Yes."

"Yes, it wasn't negative, or yes, it _was_ negative?"

"Let me put it more plainly," she said. She fished the test from where she'd hidden it (in the pocket of her robe hanging on the hook), and showed him.

The longer he looked at it, the whiter he got; it was very likely that he might faint. She tugged his hand to get him to sit down on the closed toilet lid. "Mark?" she asked, stroking his hair tenderly. "Mark?"

"We'll need to go to the doctor's tomorrow," he said, kind of in a haze, his voice flat, almost robotic. "Get confirmation."

"Tomorrow's Boxing Day," she reminded. "Then it's the weekend. How about Monday?"

He looked to her at last, blinking rapidly. "We'll find someone before Monday." He snapped out of his shock at last and jumped to his feet, embracing her and holding her tightly, seemingly forgetting that he was dressed in damp jogging clothes. "Oh my God," he said, breathing into her ear. "It's a miracle."

The only miracle involved was a man who loved her and was unwilling to give up on her, on them… but she said nothing, only felt tears spring to her eyes as she hugged him in return.

………

Mark's broad grin on Christmas Day was assumed to be in place because he would finally be marrying Bridget after seven long years of waiting; they decided not to say anything until they were certain.

Within a day or two, the doctor was able to confirm what the thin blue line had suggested.

The wedding dinner on New Year's Day brought more good news than the attending guests were expecting, though Bridget's refusal of champagne on her wedding day should have been their first clue.

The first entry in her gilt-edged journal described the very best day of her life.

_The end._


End file.
